“What! when I have not heard all about you!” exclaimed the Marquis, looking up at him. “No—sit down, Father; I am not too tired to talk.” At least, if he were, it was rest of a kind to be in here. Louis’ face! What had he said to him? . . . He had half forgotten already. But with M. des Graves he would neither have the temptation to say more than he meant to say, nor run the risk of being plied with questions. The Curé poked the recently-lit fire. “Then if you really are not too tired let me hear all about it.” “About what? You had the narration at supper.” “Yes, but it was not altogether lucid on some points,” answered the priest as he sat down. “I am really curious to know how you managed to get Louis out of La Force. Am I right in concluding that the friend in need was Madame d’Espaze?” Gilbert nodded, and then, rousing himself, related his interview with that lady, finding, to his surprise, that it stirred in him a certain amount of interest and pleasure. M. des Graves appeared to find in it the same qualities. “Well, well,” he remarked at the end, “it will give our poor Louis a kindly remembrance, after all, of the divinity about whom he wrote so warmly. And so you brought him out of Paris as your valet? But tell me about his hurt, for I fear by his looks, poor boy, that it is still causing him a good deal of suffering.” “That is quite probable,” remarked Château-Foix, and proceeded to a more detailed narrative. His strong will carried him successfully through this recital, but it could not infuse sympathy into his voice. However, M. des Graves did not seem to notice anything, and, indeed, Gilbert himself was hardly aware that there was anything to notice. “Yes, we must look after him well now,” said the priest thoughtfully. “No doubt rest is all he needs after the continuous travelling. . . . And Lucienne! How the poor child must have suffered—first that dreadful experience on the 20th of June, and then the separation! God grant that it be not long, for both your sakes!” As he uttered these words the Curé happened to glance across at Gilbert, and what he saw in his face effectually deprived him for the moment of further speech. Startled and shocked, he looked hastily away, and, hardly knowing what he was doing, again took up the poker at his feet and thrust it into the fire. “You will put the fire out, mon père,” said Gilbert. “There is too much wood on it, or else it is green. Let me take off the top log. That is better. . . . Let me see: what were we talking of? Oh, Lucienne’s journey. . . . The Princess and Madame Gaumont were most kind; and I wrote, of course, to my uncle Ashley.” “The child must be in Suffolk by now,” observed the priest, following his lead. “Long ago, I imagine.” “You have not heard from her since, then?”